


Foul

by yeaka



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Homophobia, M/M, Sexual Fantasy, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-05
Updated: 2014-10-05
Packaged: 2018-02-19 22:32:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2405315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Poor Mr. Carson suffered a nightmare.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Foul

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I don’t write historically or Britpick; you’ve been warned.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Downton Abbey or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It only happened once, but once was enough. It’s still burned onto the back of Charles’ eyelids like it truly took place right before him, and he knows that’s partially his fault. He usually forgets his dreams five seconds after he’s awake, but once he’s dwelled...

And this one, he _dwelled on_.

Because it isn’t right, isn’t _healthy_ , for a conservative, god-fearing man like Charles Carson to entertain an erotic dream about Thomas Barrow, a heathen and a sinner in more ways than one, not to mention another _man_. But it happened. And Charles still remembers, all too vividly, his dream vision of Mr. Thomas Barrow serving in the dining hall completely naked, wearing nothing but a too-sensual smirk and Isis’ black-leather collar. 

A shiver runs down Charles’ spine just thinking about it, and he doesn’t _want_ to think about it—he rolls onto his side and squeezes his eyes shut, trying to blank out the memory. Trying to slip desperately into another dream, any other dream, anything but the memory of Thomas naughtily laying out dishes, arching forward as he serves, swaying his hips with each movement and licking his lips provocatively, flaunting all his pale, flawless skin. In the dream, he stood through all of dinner service, straight-backed as ever, then helped clear away the plates, helped do everything Charles ordered, followed him right back down to the servants hall, and followed yet more orders. 

He bent over for Charles. He got on all fours for Charles. He followed Charles around like a dog too naughty to be kept off a tight leash, and it disturbs Charles so profoundly to know he could really get away with that with any of them—one word, and any of them would drop to their knees.

Thomas is the only one that deserves it, though. Thomas deserves to be held over someone’s knee and spanked, but when Charles spanked him in the dream, he only squirmed against Charles’ lap, rubbing his hardening crotch into Charles and moaning filthily, _“Yes, Mr. Carson, please, oh yes, I’ve been so very bad—”_

He’s always bad. He _would_ enjoy spanking. Maybe all his kind enjoy it, because they’re a backwards, sordid people that shouldn’t have any place in a house like this, not when Charles works so hard to uphold the family’s honour, and then they go weaseling into his dreams like foul, disease ridden-rats...

Charles goes stiff in his bunk, eyes opening wide in the dark as he wonders, horrified, if that sort of thing can _spread_ , if Thomas’ sinful ideals have caught on. He wouldn’t think so, of course, not to a man like himself, but there’s no other excuse for the dream—

He would _never_ , surely, before knowing, have dreamed of Thomas Barrow being lead into his office, bound and gagged and red-arsed from being spanked. His mind never would’ve been able to summon the image of Thomas being bent over his desk, thighs spread and collared neck held down, back arched and open arse in the air, and Charles would’ve never, not in a million years, ever thought such a thing _enticing_ , _inviting_ , horribly irresistible...

He wants to wretch. He sits up in bed. Obviously attempting to sleep again was a horrible idea. Clearly, his dreams can’t be trusted. He shouldn’t have locked eyes with Thomas over breakfast this morning, even for a light scolding that Thomas clearly deserved. He shouldn’t look at Thomas, not directly, not for at least another week, not until all of this devilry is completely out of his head. 

He knows it’s not right to hate a man for what happens in another’s dreams. But it’s very, very hard not to hate Mr. Thomas Barrow, who wears all his polished livery so well and yet would be so willing to strip it all away for another man. 

Charles shakes his head and clambers out of bed, forcing himself to get dressed too early. He’ll polish the silverware, sort the wine cabinet, even rearrange his office for the fourteenth time this week— _anything_ to get his head back to where it should be. 

It seems an impossible unlikelihood, but he passes Isis in the hall, and he nearly chases the poor thing out of its skin.


End file.
